


saviour complex

by Transistors



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 14:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistors/pseuds/Transistors
Summary: Angela remembers a time, when Moira wasn't so cold towards her - when they were partners in their work at times, a camaraderie building up into a budding, quiet relationship.Now, she is a captive of Talon, and Moira isn't the woman Angela remembers her being. Not anymore.





	saviour complex

**Author's Note:**

> Moicy is a good ship and I love writing me some angsts. Forgive any errors or inconsistencies or anything like that; I wrote this while tired and feeling a bit sick, but I had the urge to write really bad soooo... I did!
> 
>  **Edit:** AO3 freaked out and bolded everything? Sorry about that.  
>  **Edit 2:** Fixed some grammar and wording issues.

“It’s a shame you’re part of Talon now.” Angela says a little too snidely, and Moira barely gives any indication that she is paying attention. Not that Angela minds; her arms cross on the table that she is practically confined to, a collar – not of Moira’s making, despite how close to her design it looks – attached to her neck to keep her from running away.

Not that she wants to, not anymore.

There is nothing but the sounds of clicks and beeps that keeps her economy, sometimes followed by the sound of boiling water or the fizzing of chemicals as Moira works on her experiments; Amélie – no, _Widowmaker is_ away on a mission and not the one to keep her company, and Angela’s heart tightens up in her chest at the thought of her once-friend.

She can’t tell why they keep her with Widowmaker most days and not Moira – though, she supposes it really is better to be stuck with the former, who is silent and immobile against her own will, rather than be with the cold-shoulder of the latter. “It’s a shame you have no damn _morals._ ” Angela spits out bitterly, a bump forming in her throat that she swallows down several times – tears gather at her eyes and she can only wipe at them vigorously.

There is a pause. Moira’s hands stay in the air, a test tube in the left and dropper in the right, and Angela watches as they are slowly lowered back onto the table. The test tube is dropped, carefully, into its rack and the dropper is emptied out of whatever concoction that Moira has thought up of. The humming of machinery as Moira takes a different test tube and inserts it into the machine makes Angela nearly break out into laughter.

She remembers – she remembers the moments where they can sometimes push aside their differences and work together on the same experiments, exchanging glances and smiles as though they are teenagers in high-school instead of esteemed researchers and doctors. She remembers how well they have worked together; bouncing ideas off one another, relying on each other to make sure their experiments go well, and she recalls, well, the odd separation anxiety that happens whenever Moira has to be taken on one of her very few Blackwatch missions.

Even if there are times where they are sarcastic to each other, Angela thinks back to herself; how she waits for the other like a lover on their significant other returning from war, making check-ups on Moira because her healing, at the time, has been experimentally temporary and volatile, at times. Sometimes it got to the point where Angela has to heal the other Blackwatch members that return with Moira; their pain dulled but the wounds struggling to heal because Moira's formula still isn't complete, isn't perfected.

Back then, she remembers thinking about how insufferably mouthy Moira can be towards her. Now, she wishes back for the time where Moira will spout off something divisive to Angela just to get a rise out of her instead of this frigid, unresponsive woman.

Glass clinks together as Moira puts back some of the test tubes, her mutated hand grabbing at a beaker to put it on the bunsen burner underneath the burette filled with a murky, brownish red liquid. She stares and stares, watching as Moira painstakingly titrates whatever it is she is working on, and Angela huffs as precipitate forms far too quickly for the woman’s taste.

She can see the frustration taking over; her body language still hasn’t changed, which is a relief that doesn't last too long. Her nails drag noisily across the table, her grip so tight that her hands shake with it, and she hunches over and cranes her head downwards to grab at the poor flask. “Add more of the weak acid.” Angela murmurs and Moira finally, _finally_ looks at her... and, to her surprise, does just as recommended.

Next time, the titration goes by more smoothly. She watches Moira through it, the half-hour that she spends titrating dragging at Angela’s thin patience, but she keeps to herself. When there is still no precipitate, the burette is shut off and Angela watches – with some degree of confusion – as the burner is turned on and the pH meter is brought along to check on the clear liquid.

“What are you doing?” Angela asks, expecting nothing, and she jolts when Moira turns to her with those familiar, sharp eyes – she has always looked so condescending, as though everyone is beneath her, and Angela remembers how Jesse has always been victim to her rather uncaring and rude remarks.

Her eyes have always softened when they are fixed upon her, and to no longer have that gentleness and to, instead, gaze back into conflicted and glossy eyes... Angela’s heart tightens. “It’s... for Reyes.” Moira answers finally, her voice faltering as though she can’t stop herself, and Angela looks into those glossy, mismatched eyes as though there is an answer hidden away there. “It’s a type of medicine I’m trying to make for him.” Moira continues, her voice bland and quiet, and she averts her gaze from Angela’s even as she doesn’t turn her head away by much. “Every other medicine won’t work for him, his body’s biology has been destroyed completely, and there is nothing more I can learn from him.”

Angela just nods, her own gaze moving onto the slowly heating up mixture. “Why does he need medicine, Moira? Are you hoping to turn him into another _Widowmaker_?”

“It’s to numb the pain.” the answer is instantaneous, not even a pause between Angela’s cruel, angry spit of the Talon agent’s moniker and she can’t bring herself to acknowledge what Moira’s face must be right now. “They can’t send him on much missions anymore because of the chronic pain, and they’re trying to get me to hurry up making the cure as of two days ago.”

“You were always good at it.” Angela says. “At temporary fixes.”

“... I only learned permanence because of you, Ziegler.” there is respect in her voice; respect that Angela remembers sharing towards her at some point, before Moira further buries herself in her research and then completely and utterly _vanishes_ into thin air. “Your experiments have helped me greatly, but they are all for normal human bodies. Now, if you will _excuse me,_ I have my work to do.”

She doesn’t know what prompts Angela into saying it. There isn’t anything about the way Moira speaks that prompts her into it, other than the cold respect of one to another in the near-same field of research. But her mouth moves regardless, and the words, _“I miss you.”_ tumble out before Angela can put any stop them.

Everything in the room seems to freeze then. Moira’s hand on the dial to increase the temperature, the other one holding onto the pH electrode, and her back faces Angela, hiding away her visage and whatever expressions that twists it. Something heavy hangs in the air, growing worse as the pregnant pause stretches on further and further... before there is a soft sigh, and a near inaudible, “I missed us.” that Moira practically forces herself to confess by her sheer silence and silent dismissal.

“There is no us anymore, Ziegler.” Moira says after several heavy moments, where Angela is quietly crying, and she won’t look at her. Won’t even smile at her in pretense that everything is okay. Won’t be the same Moira as before who holds her hand tightly, the mutated one hidden behind a glove, and Angela remembers asking her to always hold it.

She has never gotten the chance to.

“Whatever history we had, doctor, forget about it. Your saviour complex won’t do you any good here. You are the captive, and I am a pawn for your captor. Remember that.”

After that, silence once again makes itself home in the room; the experiment continues on, failures broken up with semi-successes, slight successes, and near-complete successes only for Moira to have to try again and Angela gives minimal input. Moira never asks for her opinion, but she never stops her either as they continue a perverse parody of their once-blooming relationship.

She is a captive now.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/starrelia) | [My Tumblr.](https://masculinedevil.tumblr.com)


End file.
